


Just Give Me One More Moment of Silence

by ViolaTricolour



Series: The Sparrow and the Song [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle of Magi, F/M, Unrequited Crush, the magi origin really sucks, this is nothing but pure pain and i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 11:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7800193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaTricolour/pseuds/ViolaTricolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nimia Surana has just been through her Harrowing only to learn her best friend is dating a Chantry initiate, is about to be made Tranquil, and has decided to try and escape from the Circle. The only question is, which will win out: Nimia's loyalty to her best friend, or her sense of duty to the Circle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Give Me One More Moment of Silence

She remembers the first time he spoke of her, a smile spreading across his face so bright and wide it was almost blinding. She remembers the heavy knot in the pit of her stomach, her heart fluttering. She remembers confusion mingled with something else she could not quite name at the time. It wasn’t happiness.

But she smiled, told him she was happy for him, asked for information he wouldn’t give her.

She cannot remember if the distance that grew between them in the following months was because Irving had let slip her Harrowing was coming quickly, that she had to study harder than ever, or if it was because she found her mind wandering to grey eyes and a shy, tentative smile she found endlessly endearing.

Nimia has always been like his sister. He’s said it time and time again over the years. It’s never necessarily bothered her, even if ‘ _brother_ ’ was a title she never openly gave him. So why is it that as soon as she learned he was seeing a girl – still unnamed, still unknown – she could not look him in the eye?

The answer is plain as day as she stands in the chapel, staring at him with wide blue eyes while a Chantry initiate hangs off his arm.

“Oh! So she _does_ exist!” A laugh escapes her, breathy and weak, something Jowan does not seem to notice. “My condolences, Lily.”

“Oh, yes, _very_ funny,” Jowan shoots back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. There is no hint of amusement. “This isn’t why I asked you here, Nimia.”

Of course it’s not. Lyrium poisoning after her Harrowing has left her mind hazy, but she is still walking, and she is certainly not blind enough to think his odd mood and secrecy is because he’s sleeping with a Chantry initiate. In _love_ with a Chantry initiate.

(There is something like anger flaring up inside her: Lily has broken every single one of her vows, has spit on the position she is allowed to have. It’s a disgrace to the Chantry, and she finds herself utterly disgusted with the girl.)

(She does not find herself as disgusted with him, however.)

“They’re going to make me Tranquil.”

“ _What_?” Incredulity laces her voice, panic crawling its way up her throat. “No – they can’t – _why?_ ”

“There’s rumors going around. They think I’m a _blood mage!_  People must have seen me sneaking around to meet Lily, and –”

“No. They can’t.” She feels as if her heart has stopped beating, lungs filling with screams that only stick in her throat. Had she not just been discussing this with Owain, about the personhood of the Tranquil, how despite the horrors of the Rite, it was sometimes necessary and did not make them any less _people_? But no, _no,_ she couldn’t see him Tranquil, couldn’t see him lose what made him _Jowan_ –

“We have a plan.” Nimia has almost forgotten Lily is present until she speaks, blue eyes snapping to the woman, and she swears she sees her shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to escape. Go somewhere far away from the Circle and the Chantry where Lily and I can get married and live a peaceful life.”

Oh, Maker, she’s going to vomit.

She reaches up, running a hand through dark hair, tugging slightly on the ends. He and Lily both watch her with apprehension, though she’s certain he’s the only one that can make out the way her hands shake. “You can’t be serious.”

From a distance, Nimia Surana appears cold. Calculating. Emotionless. But he has never known her to be anything other than warm, bright, _caring._ She may keep a tight handle on her emotions, but her face has always been easy enough for him to read, painting a picture that is only completed by the magic that emanates from her. A power he has always been envious of.

But right now, she is an island. He steps forward, goes to put his hands on her shoulders, but she moves away, lithe frame curling in on itself. There is nothing but disbelief in her face, and he wonders if she _knows._ If she has sensed the change in the way magic flows around him.

He could try to explain. But he knows, in the end, it would be useless. Nimia holds too much love for this gilded cage of a Circle Tower, puts too much faith in the Maker and the Chantry. It doesn’t matter – all he wants is to get away, escape before _they_ strip him of everything, and live a quiet life with Lily, without magic.

He can see that she’s going to say no before she ever speaks.

“Nimia, _please,_ I can’t do this without you,” he begs, grabbing her hands with his own. Her glare is sharp, burning through his skull, and she quickly rips herself away from him again. He cannot seem to reach her, and it’s so endlessly frustrating when she has been his best friend for fourteen years, when they know each other better than anyone else in this world.

Something changes in her expression, something he can’t quite figure out. He’s seen it often lately, normally when he interrupts her studying, but it’s not the annoyance he’d expect.

“There has to be another way.” Her voice is calm, collected, but the warm air that envelops him suggests the opposite. “We’ll explain to Irving –”

“And Lily will get in trouble! There’s no other way, Nimia, we’ve thought of it all.” She sighs, long and heavy, temperature of the air dropping once more. She goes to speak, but he interrupts. “I know you trust him, but I’m asking you to trust me first.”

He can see the wheels turning in her head, back straightening. And though there is a long moment of silence as her eyes flicker between him and the woman behind him, he feels nothing but crushing disappointment. She’s going to bury whatever distress she feels over the thought of him being made Tranquil, and do what she believes is right. All he can do is watch.

“What do you need me to do?”

He has to be dreaming. But Lily steps forward, places a hand on his shoulder, and this is _real._ Relief, unbidden and unrestrained, spreads across his face, and he does not see the scowl forming on the elf’s.

“We have to destroy Jowan’s phylactery. The phylactery chamber can only be opened with two keys – Irving has one, and Greagoir has the other. There’s no way we can get them both. But they’re just locks, and this tower holds enough power to destroy all of Thedas if it wanted to.” Nimia flinches at Lily’s words, but she says nothing. “We can melt the locks. All we need is a rod of fire.”

“Which can only be gotten from the storeroom. You realize I’ve been a mage for all of a few _hours,_ right?”

“I know. And I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t completely necessary.”

She pauses again, and he finds himself wondering how much time has been wasted because of her hesitance, how much closer he is to losing his dreams and emotions because his best friend doesn’t want to break a few rules for him.

It doesn’t matter that if this fails, Aeonar awaits her. Nimia has known from the moment he asked that she would help him in whatever way she could. And she hates herself a little for it, wishes she could bury it like she’s buried everything else. But Jowan keeps pressing into her space, whether intentionally or by accident she can’t tell, and she folds all too easily.

“Lily?” Her voice is soft, quiet, and she looks at neither of them as she speaks. “I’ll do it, but – can Jowan and I speak a moment? Alone?”

He _holds_ her, soft and gentle and loving, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he whispers assurances. Nimia finds she cannot bring herself to watch, stomach twisting painfully once more. And when he lets Lily go, she only silently nods for the door, taking off for the corridor with Jowan trailing behind.

Neither of them speak until they reach the apprentices’ library, finding a secluded corner where their whispers are drowned out by the noise of lessons. They’ve done this countless times before, become the subject of _rumors_ because of it, and yet her heart has never pounded this loudly as they disappear into the shadows.

“Did you consider asking Solona about this? She’s already been a Circle Mage for a couple of months. Showing up at the stockroom for something like a rod of fire would be far less suspicious for her.”

But Jowan only rolls his eyes, his words laced with bitterness. “She loves the Circle and hates the Chantry. She’d see Lily burned first.”

As if Nimia was not considering the same. If it had been anyone else, she would be dragging Lily in front of Greagoir and Irving both and shouting her sins for the world to hear. And though she loves Jowan, only wants him to be happy, she has not completely discarded the idea. If that’s what it would take to save him and keep him with her, she can sacrifice one Chantry initiate without blinking an eye.

“You truly love her, don’t you?” The question escapes her before she can realize she’s speaking, and she finds herself meeting his eyes in a silent plea for him to deny it. But she sees the way his face lights up every time he thinks of her, and she knows his answer before he speaks.

Lily’s voice is like music to him. He’s heard the Chant of Light so many times, but she had managed to turn it into something beautiful beyond comprehension. He's never seen anything more captivating than candlelight streaming through her brown hair, turning her into a goddess. He can feel his face heating up, a grin spreading across his face.

“I do. Maker, I really do.”

Nimia nods, mouth set into a thin line. “Very well. Don’t spend too much time in the chapel. You’re never there, it’ll look suspicious. I’ll meet up with Lily when I have the rod.” She attempts to move past him, but he reaches out, grabs her gently by the elbow.

“Nimia, are you alright?”

“Of course.” Confusion is clear on her face, the shadows of their corner throwing sharp angles on her cheeks that aren’t normally there. Her eyes capture a thin stream of sunlight from one of the windows above their heads, reflecting back at him. He forgets, sometimes, of her origins, of her reasons for finding this place a home where he only sees a prison.

Is this why she’s been acting odd lately? They’ve skirted around the issue since the day she arrived, small and thin and frightened. But if he has said something by accident, or done something to hint at his ideas since he met Lily, if that is the reason she seethes with silent anger, he needs to know. Needs a chance to fix it before he goes, because it’s not likely he’ll see his best friend again.

She only stares, and he can’t remember the last time they held eye contact this long. He doesn’t even realize he’s still holding onto her, or that she hasn’t yet pulled away.

“You’ve just… been strange, that’s all. And not just this morning. It’s almost like you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, tone cold, and she steps back, away from his grasp. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.” And there’s that look again, something like frustration.

“Please, just tell me. I don’t want to leave knowing you’re upset with me.”

She closes her eyes, takes a shuddering breath, brow furrowing and lips turning downward into a frown. Silence stretches between them, but he is patient for the first time all day. Finally, she shakes her head, slowly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s nothing you’ve done, I promise.” She gives him a small, almost sad smile, leaning up far on her toes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

(It’s nothing she hasn’t done before; she’s always been free with affection. But his nose fills with the familiar scent of wood, smoke, and elfroot and his heart gives a painful throb. He is painfully reminded of how withdrawn she’s been lately, how he will never see her again after today.)

And then she is gone, and he is left to wait.

She breezes through the hall, back up the stairs, stopping only to duck into the mages’ quarters. The Tranquil are supposed to be bringing up her things in the afternoon, but as her hand hovers over the drawers and the bed that are to be _hers,_ none of it feels quite right. This venture is going to _fail,_ and by the end of the day she will be on her way to Aeonar.

By the end of the day, Jowan will be on his way to be made Tranquil. Back leaning against the thin wall that separates her quarters from another, she runs a shaking hand through her hair, eyes on the ceiling.

_Andraste, give me guidance._

There is no answer; there is never an answer. The Maker turned his back on the world long ago, and she is not yet someone Andraste will turn her eye to. But it has never stopped her from asking, and it will not stop her now. Not when faith is the only thing left to her.

She loves him, and so she should be willing to do whatever it takes to protect him, right? So why does she feel so awful about it all; why does she want nothing more than to bury her head under the covers and pray this is all a dream? The answer, of course, lies in what she values more: her loyalty to her friend, or her duty to the Circle? Does she trust Irving will be able to see reason, more than she trusts Jowan’s plan?

The answer, of course, is the one that’s been sitting like a rock in her stomach.

_Maker, give me strength._

***

Getting the rod of fire is simple enough. She fetches Jowan in the library first, and he leaves to find Lily so they can meet her at the doors to the repository. Nimia finds herself pacing nervously, turning the rod over in her hands carefully. Every second feels like a drop of water slipping from her palms, and they have so little time as it is.

She is about to leave, try and convince Jowan to try this tomorrow, when he and Lily appear. “Sorry, got stopped by Sweeny, I think he thought I was –” Nimia only waves her hand to cut him off, turning to the Chantry initiate.

“How do we get through this door?”

Lily seems to have noticed her coldness, as she shuffles forward tentatively, raising a hand towards it. “I give it the password, and then it must feel the touch of mana.” Nimia is tempted to ask how she knows this password, but she refrains if only in the interest of _time._ A nod, Lily says a few words, and before anything else can be said Nimia shoots a thin blast of flame at the door. It opens with a click, and the three quickly rush through.

The next one, however, is a problem. Already the elf is glancing around for another door, another way in, and she wants to take off for it as soon as she spots it. But Jowan and Lily are watching her, telling her to use the rod on the lock, and with a silent prayer she holds the device up, attempting to channel her magic through it.

“It’s not working.”

A hand reaches up, lightly tracing the runes carved into the side of the door, a scowl forming on her face. Lily manages to say what she’s thinking. “Those runes must negate magic around here. _That’s_ why Irving and Greagoir use normal keys; magical ones won’t work!”

“ _Brilliant,_ ” Nimia snaps back, sarcasm lacing her tone. She doesn’t meet her eyes or Jowan’s as she takes off for the other door, calling over her shoulder. “Let’s see if this one goes around. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

It’s all happening so quickly. Jowan feels useless, standing back while the girls figure out what to do and where to go. Nimia has only become angrier, more distant, but Maker forgive him, he can’t bring himself to care. His freedom is so close, he can almost _taste_ it.

Still, he finds himself surprised over the fervor with which Nimia presses forward, hands perfectly steady as she takes out the sentinel guards that block their path, flames lapping at her hands, the corridor growing warmer the further they press. He almost has to do nothing other than avoid stepping into the line of fire.

He’s always known she was powerful. It’ll never cease to amaze him, however.

She only slows when they’ve reached the repository, and he finds himself slowing, as well. Eyes skipping over the shelves, the chests, the seemingly endless storage of artifacts – many of them undoubtedly Tevinter in origin.

“What’s this?” Nimia stands studying a statue of a woman, a familiar curiosity on her face – it’s comforting in a way, considering how utterly strange she’s been all day, that he can still recognize something when it comes to her.

“There’s something odd about—” He cuts off suddenly when the statue _speaks._

“Greetings. I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zinovia. Once consort of advisor to Archon Valerius. Prophecy my crime, cursed to stone, cursed to stone for foretelling the fall of my lord’s house.”

“Maker’s breath—the Archons were the lords of the Imperium. I wonder how long it’s been here.”

There’s a look of utter _delight_ on Nimia’s face, and he should probably be more concerned.

“’Forever shall you stand upon the threshold of my proud fortress,’ he said,” the statue speaks again, “’and tell your lies to all who pass.’ But my lord found death at the hands of his enemies, and his once proud fortress crumbled to dust, as I foretold.”

“Don’t listen to it! The Tevinter lords dabbled in many forbidden arts; this is a wicked thing,” Lily cries beside him, and he’s briefly pulled away from the wonder of it. He takes her hand, goes to move away, but Nimia is firmly planted in front of it, practically bouncing.

“But how did they do this? Is she still alive?” Nimia asks, head tilting, gaze never once leaving the statue.

“Weep not for me, child. Stone they made me and stone I am, eternal and unfeeling. And I shall endure 'til the Maker returns to light their fires again.”

“And what does that mean?”

Jowan only scoffs. They’ve wasted enough time with this, even if he does find the idea of a talking statue fascinating. “Ambiguous rubbish, it could mean anything. I can do it, too! The sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn!”

The elf lets out a snort of laughter, and he can’t help his smile in response – he didn’t realize just how long it’s been since he’s heard that sound until just now. But Lily, once again, groans, tugging on his hand to pull him away.

“Stop talking to it, _please,_ both of you.”

He can see Nimia roll her eyes, and he almost feels the need to apologize; Lily is not a mage, has no inherent interest in magic, has been taught only to fear it, while they’ve grown up surrounded by it, studied it every day. He watches as she reaches up, trailing her fingers down the arm, and he’s almost tempted to do the same. Is there some warmth there, some sign that it was once a living, breathing human? Or is it simply stone?

But she pulls away quickly, breezes past him and Lily and stops at one of the bookcases. “The wall here, look,” she calls over, and he quickly moves to her side.

“I see it. It’s weakened in spots. Here, help me move this bookcase.”

It’s easy enough; he does most the work, honestly. Lily volunteers to jump in, but Nimia only gives the woman a sharp glare and gives the shelf a massive shove that gets it the rest of the way. He doesn’t have time to wonder at her sudden hostility, as he’s already moving towards a statue of a dog, sitting facing the wall.

“I’ve seen one of these! Quick, use this with the rod of fire, it should blast through that wall.”

She raises an eyebrow, but does what he asks silently.

Breaking down the wall is _less_ silent, unfortunately.

None of them waste any time in rushing through and, thank the blessed Andraste, they find themselves right in the phylactery chamber. He leaves Nimia behind, he even leaves Lily behind as he rushes through, eyes raking over the shelves. And then he finds it – a tiny vial of blood, his name as clear as day on the outside. All at once, the world seems to slow to a crawl as he reaches out and plucks it off its shelf, holding it high.

“This is it,” he breathes. “This tiny vial is all that stands between me and freedom.”

He lets it go, the glass shattering as it hits the stone floor, blood seeping into the cracks. The scent hits him so hard he almost reels back, throat closing as he tries to swallow back the bile rising up. He can feel heat rising up inside him, the faintest of whispers in his ear, and he finds he can’t look away from that small pool of blood, even as Lily rests a hand on his arm.

“Nimia?”

At the sound of her name he finally tears his gaze up to find the elf hasn’t moved from the hole they’d created in the wall, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes wet with tears.

“Jowan –”

He moves towards her slowly, tentatively. She ducks her head, dark hair falling in a curtain around her face as he steps up to her. Tendrils of warm air wrap around him as, silently, he pulls her towards him in a tight embrace. “Thank you, Nimia. For everything.”

Her shoulders shake as she takes a few shuddering breaths, the first sounds of a word escaping her lips before disappearing again. He only lets her go, looks her straight in the eye. “I know. I’ll miss you, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

He blinks.

“Jowan, I’m so sorry.”

“What did you do?”

Panic rises in his throat, and he takes a few steps back from her. It’s not really necessary; she’s already retreating, unable to quite meet his gaze. “What did you _do_?” he repeats, sharper this time, ignoring the way she flinches.

“I told him. I told Irving.”

He swears his heart stops; Lily takes in a sharp breath of air next to him. “Why?!” he chokes out. “Why would you –” He should have known. Maker, he’d been so foolish, thinking he could trust her… His own best friend had turned on him, had cost him his life, and he can’t even find it in himself to be _surprised._ Hurt, yes. Anger, undoubtedly so, but not surprised.

“Jowan, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, taking a step forward.

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it from you!” he shouts, louder than he’d thought himself capable. His blood is boiling with rage, and he can’t look at her, he _can’t,_ not without those dark whispers returning, not without his vision going red.

She can’t look away from him. And though every word, every apology she can think of is stuck in her throat – _I had no choice, I’m so sorry,_ – on her face is a silent plea. For him to listen, to forgive, to even _look_ at her, she’s not sure which.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You know what they’ll do to Lily if she’s caught! I’d rather they kill me and leave her unharmed, and now both of us –!”

He finally turns to her again, lightening sparking between his fingertips, in his eyes. She can’t bring herself to respond; lying is useless at this point, and anything honest would only make the situation worse. Her gaze slides off him to the Chantry initiate, lips forming into a scowl. _We will not punish one of our own without ensuring the Chantry does the same._

Lily tugs at his arm, stepping back. “We should go, we might still have time.”

Nimia does not protest as they retreat through the door, doubling over as she tries to contain her sobs. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._ She’s never seen him so angry, so hurt, and she finds it hurts far more than she could have ever dreamed.

Maybe if she could just make him listen, maybe if she just had a moment to explain –

She rushes after them, blood rushing through her ears as she sprints up the steps, barreling through the doorway, skidding to a stop just outside where Irving, Greagoir, and two other templars await, and her heart drops to her knees. They were too late; she’d known they were coming, but a part of her had hoped if they just went _fast_ enough, he could make it out of the tower.

“So what you said was true, Irving. A Chantry initiate, conspiring with a blood mage. And here’s your lackey that delivered them to us so effectively.”

Nimia quietly steps to the side, eyes skipping over the templars trailing Greagoir – she doesn’t recognize either of them beneath their helmets, but that’s probably the point. She can only imagine what they were told before being gathered – _please, he’s not this dangerous,_ she wants to scream. _I don’t care what you’ve heard, he’s not a blood mage, he’d never –_

“No! I won’t let you take her!”

And everything goes red.

Her nose is assaulted with the sharp iron tang of blood, her hands clapping over her mouth; someone is screaming, and it’s the only sound she can hear – it takes a long moment for her to realize it comes from _her._ The world seems to crawl to a near-stop, seconds stretching into hours as she is pinned to the spot, watching in complete horror.

Finally, the scene clears, revealing Greagoir, Irving, and both templars on the ground, the corridor splashed in blood – the same blood that drips down Jowan’s arm, off the knife in his hand, covers his robes, her robes, even Lily’s robes.

She can hear Lily and Jowan arguing, but none of the words make sense. _Nothing_ makes sense anymore. _Jowan is a blood mage._ But she’d never once doubted the rumors had been nothing but a lie, had trusted him and believed in him.

“No, I’m not a –”

“You _are._ ” The steadiness of her voice surprises even herself, and shock gives way to an anger that ignites the fire in her veins, turning blood to molten lava, a wildfire raging throughout her limbs. Smoke rises, filling her lungs and her throat until she feels she could exhale it. A step forward, and he meets her gaze.

“You _are_ a blood mage.”

Another step forward; she should be more afraid. He’s already shown the kind of power he’s capable of, and what’s one small elf compared to the four grown men he’d already overcome? Lips curling into a snarl she opens her mouth to speak once more: _you used me!_

But she blinks, and he’s running. She blinks, and he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Things really don't get any better from here, unfortunately.


End file.
